And the Last Shall Be First
by Hawki
Summary: Oneshot: In the north, evil gathers. In more worlds than one.


**And the Last Shall be First**

"I do not care if they were forged in long dead furnaces by the Ancients themselves. They help me crush my enemies; that is all that matters."

Some had looked at him funny when he said that. Some had laughed. Old Aletur, still up to his tricks. Still on too much milk of the poppy. What, would he have another story of other worlds, and towns called Sescheron, and legions of demons overrunning that town? Please tell, they would say – Grand Maester Aemon could always slot a work of fiction into Castle Black's Library.

They had laughed at him when he'd said that. A few hours ago. That was when the laughing had stopped, and turned to shouting, as a horde of wights had borne down on the Fist of the First Men. The shouting had taken on a shade of fear as the undead kept advancing, the Night's Watch's arrows doing nothing. And even after the Old Bear had ordered their tips to be set in pitch, set alight, and then let loose, it had been too little, too late. And then the shouts had turned into screams.

He'd fought them. They laughed at him, and not just for his stories. They called him a Wildling. He was large enough to be one, with his giant build, bushy beard, and mannerisms that belonged to uncivilized society. His own people that he had once spoken of had seemed like Wildlings as well – uncouth people of the north at odds with the "civilized" peoples of the south. Making him a ranger was a terrible mistake, Allister Thorne had said, not the least of which was that he could barely use a bow.

But he could use swords. Two of them. And while fire was the bane of wights, while steel could pierce their flesh but not damage it, they were useless without their heads. Staggering around, bumping into their own, before falling to the ground motionless, as if whatever magic controlling them realized that they were now a hazard. He'd plunged into the fray as the wights reached the Fist of the First Men, hacking and slashing, like a whirlwind, doing a dance of death that was well known to the Children of Bul-Kathos. And hacked and slashed, until he heard the horn. The sign to retreat. And he had done his best to do so, even as he longed for battle. For it was Sescheron all over again – a tide of darkness he could not stop. He had died there as well, or so his dreams told him. Some of his dreams even showed him being granted a second death at the hands of a being known only as the Nephalem. And some dreams…

He kept running across the snow, through the Haunted Forest. He'd never dream again. Chances were he wouldn't ever get to sleep again. He had no idea where the Old Bear or any of the other watchmen were. He didn't even know if they were still alive. But if they were, it stood to reason they would flee south. Maybe even seek shelter at Craster's before carrying on to the Wall. And…he stopped, in the snow, leaning against a tree. Part of him actually cared. They weren't his people. They were fighting against those who were the closest to his own kind in this strange world. But they'd taken him in. Given him the chance to fight. To stand on guard, against a threat from the north, rather than one from the south. He-

 _I'm going to die here._

He pressed a palm to his abdomen. Blood, and lots of it. He hadn't even noticed it yet.

 _Maybe I'm dead already._

He'd died in his dreams. Painfully. And looking back at the trail of blood he'd left on the snow, he was reminded of that even more.

 _Maybe I'm in Hell._

Or maybe not. Hell was meant to be a realm of fire and brimstone. But even so, the people of this world spoke of seven hells. And of the Great Evils, did they not each have their own domain in the Burning Hells? Was seven not the number of Hell, in his own world as well? Seven was the number of gods that these people worshipped, and…

He drew his swords. Footsteps, on the snow. Quite a lot of them. Five, at least. Grimacing, he drew him up straight, and saw them.

 _Seven hells indeed._

Wights. Not five, but four. Three male, two female. All of them with the garb of the Wildlings. All of them with the same deathly white skin, and icy-blue eyes. Just staggering along.

"Sniff me out, did you?" he whispered.

They didn't respond. They probably couldn't even hear him, let alone process his words if they could. Grasping his swords, and taking thanks for the power his bracers afforded him, he began walking over to them. The Bracers of the First Men – a name that had come from his own world, and not from this. Yet First Men existed here too.

 _I'm fighting them at least._

It was easy, yet painful. Painful, as his body screamed at him to rest. Easy, because as long as he could fight the pain, it was a simple manner to lop their heads off. Parrying their blows, and delivering his own. One, two, three, four. Four bodies, and four heads separated from them. And Aletur's body begging him to let it slide down into the snow next to them.

 _I…I'm going to…_

But there were still footsteps.

 _Were there five after all?_

Groaning, fighting the pain, Aletur stood up. And found the last wight.

 _Bul-Kathos, what is this?_

Not a wight. Its eyes were the same, but the similarities ended there. Its body looked like it was covered in ice. Perhaps _was_ ice. And it walked towards him. Unarmed. Not shambling.

 _The Others?_

It kept walking. Slowly, steadily. Silently. Daring him to run. Still walking.

"Go to…"

Aletur gasped as his side tore open. He couldn't go on. But he couldn't run either.

 _Is this Sescheron again?_

The thing kept walking. He dropped one of his swords to the ground. He would need all his strength just to wield one.

"Go to hell," he rasped.

All his strength to swing it at the thing's neck. Go for the head. It was all he could do. And it made no move to stop him.

 _Yes!_

And made no move at all as the sword connected with the thing's skin. If it could be called skin at all.

 _What in the name of-_

The sword shattered. Shards flew everywhere, including into Aletur's own body. He was knocked back, into the snow. And screamed.

 _Am I dead again?_

He couldn't say. Maybe he was mad. Maybe it had been a dream. Maybe…hopefully…this, was a dream as well. Hopefully, as the thing grabbed him by the neck. As he writhed, and wormed, like a child. As the thing tilted its head. As it began speaking, the sound like cracking ice.

 _Dead again…_

And before he passed out, Aletur could understand the words. In one brief, horrible moment, he understood all of them.

"Baal sends his regards."

And he screamed.

* * *

 _A/N_

 _So with the Bracers of the First Men released in patch 2.3.0, I couldn't help but be reminded of the First Men of_ A Song of Ice and Fire _. That, and after all, both the North and the Dreadlands are grim, snowy places. So, yeah. Ended up drabbling this down._


End file.
